United We Stand, Together We Fall
by Mrs.EdwardElric610
Summary: When terrorists attack the World Trade Center, Alfred isn't the only one affected. POV switches from USA to UK to Japan back to US to China back to UK and then back to US to show how other nations were affected. I don't know...I'm awful at summaries...


It was a crisp September day. There was noise everywhere, traffic and people, street vendors advertising their wares. Alfred Jones stepped off the curb with one foot and thrust a hand into the cool morning air. He shouted in a ringing voice, "Taxi!"

A yellow taxicab screeched to a halt in front of the young American, and he bundled himself into it with a smile at the driver, who scowled back at him. Alfred was a cheerful sort, so he didn't mind the scowl. He slapped his briefcase down onto the seat beside him, gave the address. The driver pulled away from the curb and began weaving through traffic like a fish weaving through coral. Alfred craned his neck to peer over the back of the drivers seat and look in the rear view mirror. He straightened his blue silk tie, wiped a speck of dust from his glasses, and of course made a wacky face at himself justs for fun. The driver gave him a weird look, Al ducked his head and grinned sheepishly. He fiddled with his tie for a few more minutes, retying it in the different knots for the different branches of military out of sheer boredom.

When the driver pulled up to the tall, official-looking United Nations building, Alfred shoved the fare at the man and leaped out of the taxi with the air of a student hearing the recess bell. He always hated the boredom of riding in the car, and was looking forward to the meeting, just so he would be able to watch France and England go at it again, just like every meeting. He bounded up the steps with his usual enthusiasm. Not enthusiasm for going to work, which he did not enjoy, but just enthusiasm of being alive, out in the sunshine for a few moments before walking into the drab meeting room.

Al was late, as usual, but only by a few minutes. And the first few minutes of these meetings were always pure chaos anyway. So Alfred applauded himself for not missing anything and avoiding a scolding from Germany, who always took charge of the meetings even when they weren't in his own country. The tall, blond German stood and held up his hands for attention, shouting over the pandemonium of people all shouting in many different languages.

"Vill everyone please sit down and pay attention! Italy, please stop messing vith Greece's cats! Attention! HEY, SHUT UP!"

Everyone shut up. Despite being a teddy bear under all that muscle and intimidation, Germany was pretty scary when he shouted. Alfred settled himself in for a long, boring meeting. He perked up a little when France tried to take the seat beside England, resulting in a minor tussle.

"Get away from me you bloody frog!"

"But mon cher! There is nowhere else for me to sit!"

But after that had settled, the room was quiet. Alfred noticed that his brother Matthew, AKA Canada, was entering late(or he just hadn't noticed him sitting there beforehand) and was busying himself in settling his pet polar bear Kumajiro beneath the chair and turning his attention to Germany. The meeting began. Alfred zoned out, staring out the huge window that had a spectacular view of the New York skyline, with the world trade center towers rising into the sky like two proud parents overlooking their many children with pride. Al smiled a little.

The meeting was well into its first hour, and Alfred had already turned his eyes to the other window, the one that looked out at the not-so-distant water. He could just make out Lady Liberty's figure standing there on her island. Suddenly, there was a pain so sharp and sudden in his side that it stole his breath away and bent him double, coughing madly. A few nations called out concerned questions that he didn't answer. Something warm and wet covered his hand and dripped down his wrist. Suddenly he was falling from his chair, and a pair of familiar hands caught him and lowered him to the carpet. There was more pain, now, and a burning sensation. His skin felt like it was on fire, as did his lungs. Alfred continued to cough, though it hurt to do so. The taste of acrid smoke- burning hair and flesh- filled his mouth.

Arthur Kirkland lowered Alfred's body to the carpet with careful slowness. The young man's body was convulsing with deep, hacking coughs, blood spattered his hands that he held to his mouth. He knew what was happening. He had been looking out the window- he could only pay attention for so long to one of Germany's long speeches- when the plane had flown toward the south tower. He wondered if he was the only one that had turned to look at the boy just as the plane struck, the only one who had watched Al's face go from bored, aloof, even thoughtful to anguished, pained, and terrified. Was he the only one who had seen those blue eyes widen, pupils suddenly dilating? Arthur hadn't even realized he had moved until he was gripping Alfred in his arms and laying him on the floor. Nothing else existed except himself and his son.

"Alfred? Lad, can you hear me?" He asked, all urgency. The American had mostly stopped coughing, though his breath was raspy and gasping. He choked out a response, surprising Arthur with the British accent in his speech.

"What's happening?"

"A-a plane just flew into the world trade center." Arthur responded, aware of how completely absurd it sounded. How could this be happening? How could something like this be real?

Alfred coughed again, and nodded. He didn't know why he had asked. He knew. Maybe he was just hoping it wasn't true. Alfred's blue eyes were open and staring, but he wasn't seeing the ceiling of the meeting room, or the faces of curious, panicking nations staring down at him. Flickering images and scenes of horror flashed through his mind, his ears were filled with frantic screams.

"_What's happening? What's going on?"_

"_We cant get out! Help! Someone, help us!"_

"_No! No! Nooo!"_

A woman's face, tear streaked and wild-eyed... a business man in suit and tie, shielding a coworker from plaster falling from the ceiling... a figure, covered in flame...

"My God... he's burning... someone save him... please..." Alfred whispered. A line of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth. Arthur wiped it away with the sleeve of his suit jacket. Matthew dropped to his knees beside his brother, looking frantically from Arthur to Alfred.

"What's he talking about, Father? Who's burning?" The Canadian asked in a frightened whisper. Arthur shook his head helplessly.

"Someone in the building, I suppose."

Japan stood quietly beside Arthur, like a passive archangel looking down upon the turmoil of Earth. He joined the cluster of people kneeling beside the suffering Alfred.

"Give him room." Japan said in a muted tone. Matthew nodded and stood, moving to stand beside Prussia, who was silent for once in his life. Arthur could barely drag his eyes away from the blue ones staring unseeingly into his. He answered in a distracted manner.

"...What...?"

Japan spoke louder this time, an event that rarely happened. It startled Arthur enough to break his trance-like stare.

"_Give him room! Move! Let him breathe!_"

Arthur obeyed, lurching to his feet and stumbling backward. He nearly tripped, but was caught by long fingered hands and rose-scented shirt cuffs. Francis. The Frenchman steadied Arthur and turned the smaller man to face him.

"Mon cher." He said, concern dripping from his words. Arthur shook his head and pulled away from Francis's touch. His response lacked the vigor, though, that it usually possessed,

"Keep your bloody hands to yourself, frog."

Francis regained his hold on the Brit. This time Arthur was to dazed to pull back, and let Francis put a comforting arm around his shoulders. For once the Frenchman didn't try anything improper. He was merely a friend to share the pain with. And for once, Arthur let him be.

Japan now crouched at the American's side, pulling away the suit jacket that had been hiding the dark red stain across the light blue button-up shirt beneath. Japan pulled that away as well, and exposed the fair skin beneath. Or it had once been fair. Now, his left side was marred, ragged flesh held together by strings of wretched tissue. Burns blackened what remained of the skin on his abdomen. Blood began to pool on the floor. Italy stared in open-mouthed awe at the towers. Smoke billowed from the tall building, and faint flickers of orange danced in the windows. Suddenly his voice broke the hush that had fallen over the onlookers.

"Look! Look, there's another plane! It's- Ay, Dio!"

The second tower was struck, and Alfred screamed in pain. His body arched and twitched. Arthur wrenched himself from Francis with a strangled yell. He could almost feel the pain his son was experiencing. He watched helplessly as the wounds grew at an alarming speed. Alfred quieted, and his hand twitched upwards, towards his father, and his eyes locked on the green ones of the Englishman. Arthur dropped again to his knees beside his son and gripped the pale, shaking hand. Alfred opened his mouth and spoke in a cracked, broken voice,

"They're burning... I'm burning..."

A memory burst to life in Arthur's mind, of many years ago. When all of London was aflame. He could hear his own voice, that same accent, that same fear... those same words.

"_They're burning... I'm burning..." _

He had nearly forgotten, blocked that day from his memory. It didn't hurt so much when he looked at it from a distance. But now, watching the same pain flash across Alfred's pale face... It was too close, too real...

Arthur turned from his son, and covered his face with his hands. He tried to draw the tears back, and not let them fall. He was not successful in this. The drops fell like bullets onto his fingertips. He didnt want to watch this, he didnt want to see this much. He was too old for so much excitement. This was too much.

Kiku Honda looked down at the wounds on Alfred's side with a critical eye. He pulled off his own jacket and pressed it to the bloody skin in an attempt to staunch the flow of red. He knew what this was. He knew exactly what this was. It was no accident, or failing of radar, as he had thought when the first plane struck. He knew right away that this was terrorism. This was a planned attack. But who, _who_ would have enough hate in their heart to attack such a friendly- albeit obnoxious- nation? Who would do this to Alfred? Japan knew that whoever it was, they were most likely in the room. He hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary before the incident... Kiku forced himself to focus on Alfred instead of trying to be some Japanese version of Sherlock Holmes.

Kiku pulled the jacket in his hands away from the wounds. Alfred had fallen eerily silent, except for the labored breaths and soft moans that occasionally punctured the tense silence in the room. Kiku could see out of the corner of his eye dark figures leaping from the burning, wretched buildings. Some sprawled into the air, limbs flailing. Others did delicate swan dives, as though they jumped into a pleasant swimming pool, instead of to their deaths on the concrete hundreds of feet below. Each figure that jumped caused Alfred to whimper. Sometimes he spoke words, begging them not to jump, pleading with them to hold on to the hope of rescue. It was so hard for every nation to hear those pleas. And it very nearly broke Kiku's heart, as he remembered the Nuclear bombings. Nagasaki... Hiroshima... all those people... No, he wouldn't let himself get lost in thoughts of that now. He had to care for Alfred. The skin that wasn't torn apart was drenched in sweat and very hot. The fire was causing Al's temperature to rise. If it got too high, he could end up with some serious brain damage.

"Cold water and washrags." Kiku ordered his brother, Yao. The Chinese man turned and dashed down the hall for the needed supplies. Suddenly, a shrill scream from Hungary split the air. Kiku turned, dread filling his heart.

_What now? _He thought warily. Then all other thought was lost in horror and amazement as one of the towers began to fall. It was grotesquely beautiful, and seemed so effortless. Debris flew everywhere in graceful arcs. Alfred screamed, and his side split yet again, white bone glistening as it splintered.

Alfred was unaware of where he was... of whose hands were tending him... of who was speaking. He could hardly hear the words that they said. They were drowned out by the hysterical screaming, sobbing, praying, begging... He couldn't see his fathers face anymore, nor that of Matthew, or of anyone else. They were covered up by countless hellish images of death, pain, destruction, desperation...

They were jumping. They were killing themselves. He felt the life leave each one as they hit the ground below. He felt the exhilaration and fear as they dropped like stones. He felt the grim acceptance as they made the decision to throw themselves from the building. Anything was better than burning to death, or suffocating on the smoke.

And then the building collapsed. He hadn't thought that the pain could get worse, and then it did. He felt his ribs shattering, he felt his heart sputter, stop, and then resume its rapid thrumming. So many people... crushed... lost... even those who were nearby the towers, the firemen and emergency response people, were dying now... How could this be happening? Why?

And then... again. The second tower fell. More screams. And Arthur...was he crying? Yes, he was sobbing and shouting curses at the pilots. People, real people, had done this. Why? How could this be happening? And then more pain. Another plane crash, one that he almost missed in the chaos that filled him, in a field in Pennsylvania. And the Pentagon. Why? Why? _Why?_

Yao Wang sprinted back into the meeting room, elbowed his way through the crowd of nations with the arm that wasn't holding a mixing bowl of cold water and an armful of hand towels from the kitchens. He watched Kiku wiping blood from Alfred's skin with one dripping towel, and folding another to place on the burning forehead. Yao looked at his younger brother, at the expression on the Japanese man's face. It was a knowing look, an understanding, compassionate look. Yao knew what Kiku was thinking. He was remembering Nagasaki, and Hiroshima. Remembering his own pain on those days. _But... _Yao mused, frowning down at the fervent Kiku bent over Alfred's trembling form, _If he's remembering the bombings... why is he caring for Alfred? America is the one who dropped those bombs. What...? _

Then Yao understood. He finally realized something that Kiku had known and accepted a long time ago, after the disaster of Pearl Harbor. Kiku understood something that so many people were unable to understand: Pain experienced is not reason to inflict pain. Even on the one who hurt you in the first place. Because if you experience pain, you know exactly how it is. You have firsthand knowledge of how horrible it is. And you shouldn't want others to experience that, no matter what they did to you. Even the knowledge of the pain comes from them. You should never wish pain upon someone else. Not even your enemies.

Arthur Kirkland stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the towers. The meeting room was empty now, and quiet. His feet were planted shoulder length apart, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. His green eyes stared at the crumpled towers, at the emergency vehicles and personnel, at the ant-sized people scurrying around in the chaos. His face was still streaked with tear tracks, but his eyes were dry, now. His hands no longer shook, his mind was clear of all thought. But he was far from fine. The images of the attack were playing like a slide show in his mind's eye. But it was over. It was finally over. Most of the nations had left, and Alfred was sleeping peacefully in one of the many rooms in the UN building. The enormous building had been designed so that visiting ambassadors and the like could stay at the UN building instead of in a hotel. This also meant that the Nations were free to utilize any of the rooms if they needed. Al couldn't be taken to a hospital, because all the hospitals were busy with the victims of the attack, and taking Al to a doctor would result in some awkward questions. So he had been taken down to a room where Kiku was watching him.

Arthur couldnt bear to look at the poor, injured boy. He couldn't stand to see the blood-soaked bandages, or hear Alfred's labored breathing. All he could see when he looked at the young American was the little boy he had been, as a little colony. Playing, shouting, laughing, so carefree. Not knowing that _this- _terrorism, warsm pain- lay in his future. How Arthur wished he could take some of the pain from his son. How he wished he could go downstairs and comfort the poor boy. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. And he hated himself for it.

"Mon cher?"

Arthur stiffened, and closed his eyes. Francis. No doubt the frog had the idea that he was allowed to get all up-close and personal with Arthur, after what had happened earlier.

"What do you want, Francis?" Arthur sighed and unclasped his hands to rub the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on behind his eyes.

"I came to see if you were alright. You have been up here a long time." Francis strode to the window and stood beside Arthur. Frenchman and Brit stood side by side, feet apart, hands behind their backs, staring at a broken city. Neither looked at the other.

"I've just been... thinking." Arthur replied in a low voice. He hoped Francis would just leave it at that and go away. But no such luck.

"Thinking? About what?" Francis' tone was casual, simply mild interest. Arthur sighed again, clasped his hands behind his back again.

"What do you mean, 'about what'? You know full well what I've been thinking about. What we've all been thinking about."

"The attack."

"Yes." Another sigh. His lungs were getting a work out today. "The attack."

"Do you have any idea who did it?" Francis still stared out the window, not at Arthur. Arthur returned the favor.

"No." Arthur shook his head in a defeated manner.

"I do not either. But we will know, soon, mon cher."

"I hope."

There was a silence. Then Francis spoke in an infinitely gentle voice. "Mon Lapin. Why are you here?"

Arthur frowned, "What so you mean? I'm here for the meeting, same as you-"

"Non." Francis cut him off, "Now. Why are you here, now. When you should be with our- your- son? How can you bear to leave his side? If this were Matthew, I would be-"

"I don't know! I just... I just cant... I don't know. I'm a terrible father." Arthur interrupted, anguish in his voice.

"You are not." Francis shook his head, but still kept his eyes on the city, "You are frightened. And you are confused. But, mon cher," Now Francis finally turned to look at the British man beside him, "Any man can be frightened and confused. It takes a real father to push those feelings aside and go to his son, even though it hurts. You are a real father. I know you are. We raised the boys together. You are Alfred's father. So that is why I ask you: What are you doing here?"

Arthur's breath caught in his chest, and he turned his head towards Francis. Green eyes met blue. Francis offered the smallest of smiles. And Arthur, astonishingly, returned it with a whispered "Thank you." Then he whirled around and dashed out the door towards the stairs. Just before he was out of speaking range, he yelled to Francis.

"Don't think this means I like you or anything, you bloody frog!"

In the meeting room, Francis laughed aloud.

Alfred Jones opened his eyes. The world was a blur of shadows and vague shapes, which frightened him. He sat upright in his bed in a panic, and a sharp pain shot through his side. For a heart-shattering moment he remembered what had happened, and a cry of despair ripped from his lips. The firm hands gently pushed him back onto the mattress.

"Where do you think you're going, you absurd yank? You'll pop the stitches and Ludwig will have an absolute _fit._"

Alfred couldn't help a small laugh, "Oh yeah?" The British accent had gone from his voice. "That sounds like something I'd like to see. D'you think he'll start to sputter like you do, Artie?"

Arthur's voice (Al still couldn't see his face) was indignant, "I do not sputter!"

"You do so. I remember." Alfred smiled weakly, then brought a shaking hand to his face, "I can't see."

"You're not wearing your glasses. Here..." The familiar cool metal of Al's glasses settled onto his face, and he could see again. He blinked and looked around the room. It was neutrally furnished, like a hotel room, and dimly lit. "This is one of the UN's courtesy rooms, in case you were wondering."

Arthur's face was haggard and worry worn, and traces of tear-streaks were still on his face. The rims of his green eyes were a little red, but he seemed perfectly fine now. There was blood on his white button-up shirt. _My blood. _Alfred realized with a jolt. The weight of the day suddenly crashed over him like a tidal wave, and all the pain, the fear, the aching sadness seemed to smother him. Tears leaked out the corners of the American's eyes before he could stop them, and they ran into his ears. Arthur's hand gripped his own, and squeezed it comfortingly.

"Why?" Alfred whispered.

"I don't know, lad. It... doesn't make any sense."

"...Never saw it coming... They had no idea... No idea..." Alfred gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tight.

"None of us did. Alfred, I..." Arthur's voice was tight, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry this happened."

There was silence in the room as father and son shared a moment of sorrow.


End file.
